


best laid plans

by saltedpin



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Chocolate Box Exchange Round 6 treat, Denial, M/M, Pre-Relationship, a little bit of subtle long-term pining, dubiously reliable narrator, light comedy, the beginning of something else maybe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:14:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29390373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltedpin/pseuds/saltedpin
Summary: Iwaizumi gives him a look, his eyes narrowing. “So… that’s our new tactic is it, as a team? Seduce the enemy?”“Oh no – just me," Oikawa says. "I’m willing to bear this burden for everybody.”Oikawa has a plan.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime & Oikawa Tooru, Oikawa Tooru/Ushijima Wakatoshi
Comments: 21
Kudos: 107
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	best laid plans

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sapphical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphical/gifts).



> Hello! I hope you enjoy this Chocolate Box treat! I just thought your prompt was really funny and cute, with Ushijima always having had a ~thing for Oikawa but unable to make his feelings plain due, as you said, to his flat affect and single facial expression, and Oikawa consistently misreading him (a little willfully in this instance ~~due to his own massive denial~~ ). I just wanted to write something that hinted at what you suggested about building something better in future - so maybe this is the start of that :) 
> 
> Thanks for writing such a fun prompt, and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Thank you so much to my betas Apathy, rabbit_habits and Arashian155 for all their help and encouragement!!

_I'm coming down with a cold or something, so tell Sensei I won't be coming to Niigata for the exhibition match tomorrow. Such a shame, was looking forward to seeing Ushiwaka’s lower lip wobbling when we beat them. Have fun without me, insofar as such a thing is even possible._

That was what Oikawa’s LINE message had said last night. So why on earth is Iwaizumi here, in his room, glowering down at him as he lies in bed, this early on a Saturday morning?

“What are you doing here? How did you get inside my house?”

“Your mother let me in,” Iwaizumi says, before striding across the room and opening his curtains. “Get up.”

Oikawa pulls his head down beneath his duvet, burrowing away from the cruel light of day. “Iwa-chan, I’m sick.” He coughs weakly to demonstrate. “Didn’t you get my message?”

“I did.”

Oh, and now Iwaizumi is walking around his room as if he owns it, opening his wardrobe and yanking out a couple of t-shirts and his clean uniform from the shelf and throwing them all in his sports bag. It’s almost enough to make Oikawa get out of bed and ask him what the hell he thinks he’s doing, but apparently he’s the only one interested in keeping up the polite fiction of his illness, so he stays where he is. Someone in this room has to be responsible for maintaining the social contract, after all.

The raiding of Oikawa’s wardrobe accomplished, Iwaizumi glances back over his shoulder at him. “Come on. Get up or we’ll be late. I told Sensei we’d need an extra five minutes, but they won’t wait any longer than that.”

“I already told you I’m not going,” Oikawa says, sitting up now and _very_ aware of his bedhead. “Tell them I'm sick. Or dead. I don't care. Whatever you think will get me out of going. I leave it in your hands, Iwa-chan.” He lies back down, pulling his duvet up.

“Why, what other plans do you have for today? Studying for your university entrance exams?” Iwaizumi asks, his voice flat as he uses his foot to close the bottom of Oikawa’s chest of drawers.

“There’s no need to be sarcastic,” Oikawa tells him. “And stop touching my underthings. Were you raised by wolves? Why are you rifling around in my personal space?”

“Either I can do it or you can do it, but either way you need to pack,” Iwaizumi tells him. “If you like, I’ll wait downstairs. But if you’re not down there in two minutes I’ll be back.”

Oikawa has known Iwaizumi long enough to know when he’s being deadly serious with his threats, and this is one he can tell he intends to go through with. At the moment, Oikawa knows the best he can hope for is at least being allowed the dignity of packing his own underpants.

“All right, fine, fine,” he says, stretching and yawning as if it’s all the same to him anyway – he can be gracious in defeat. Sometimes. “Go downstairs, I’ll be there in a minute.” 

Iwaizumi takes a moment to gauge Oikawa’s sincerity levels, and then, apparently satisfied, he nods and turns away, before stomping his way back downstairs. A moment later, Oikawa hears his voice drifting up from the kitchen as he starts chatting lightly with his co-conspirator, Oikawa’s own mother.

Iwaizumi has already packed most things Oikawa needs for the trip – _how does he do it?_ – so all that’s left is for Oikawa to throw in his socks, underpants, and glasses case, arrange his hair into _some_ semblance of order (though it’s not as if he couldn’t pull off bedhead if he wanted to and sell it as _artful disarray_ ), throw on yesterday’s clothes and put in his contacts, before he follows Iwaizumi downstairs.

His mother has a packed breakfast _and_ lunch ready and waiting for him, and gives him a peck on the cheek as she hands it to him, telling him to _have fun_ and _be careful_. But Oikawa’s never given his mother any reason to worry, and he’s not about to start now. 

“Come on,” Iwaizumi says as they emerge into the still-dim morning light, a chill lingering in the air. “You can either sulk in your room or you can come play some volleyball. I know which one you’d rather do, whether you want to admit it or not.”

“Why can’t they just send some of the second and first years?” Oikawa asks as he tries to pull his head lower down into his collar. “Why do _I_ have to go?”

“It’s the burden of popularity, Trashykawa,” Iwaizumi tells him. “Apparently these kids have been looking forward to this. Presumably because from the spectator stands they can't tell how shitty your personality is, and some of them think it would be nice to meet you.”

“Maybe it’s better for them to learn early that some dreams are destined to be shattered,” Oikawa says lightly, and from the corner of his eye he sees Iwaizumi’s head turn sharply towards him. 

“Oh please,” Iwaizumi says after a moment. “Your dreams are a bit tougher than that, Shittykawa. You’ll have fun once you get there.”

*

But that’s where Iwaizumi is wrong for once in his self-righteous life, Oikawa thinks, ensconced in the Aoba Jousai team minibus as it winds its way to Niigata. Oikawa is having absolutely no trouble at all admitting to himself that he still wants to play volleyball – it’s just _this_ particular game, in _this_ particular instance that he doesn’t want to deal with.

He isn’t supposed to be here right now. None of them are – Aoba Jousai was supposed to squash its opposition flat and go on to face Shiratorizawa in the preliminary finals, where Oikawa would snatch their already-assumed victory out from underneath their noses and take his team on to the nationals. _That_ was how this had all been supposed to go, not with both of them heading off to Niigata to play an exhibition match at the request of someone with enough pull that they can apparently compel even Shiratorizawa's wizened little walnut of a coach to do what they want. 

It has the feel of something thrown together at the last minute – which Oikawa supposes makes sense, since _no one_ would have ever expected that _neither_ Seijou _nor_ Shiratorizawa would have made it past the preliminaries. But that isn’t really what bothers him either. 

Oikawa rests his chin on his palm and gazes out the minibus windows at the distant mountain ranges. Obviously, he hasn’t seen Ushijima since their brief… well, Oikawa supposes you could call it a _conversation_ if you weren’t too fussy about it, after they’d lost to Karasuno. He has no idea why Ushijima had chosen to approach him, though he’s not too modest to know what Ushijima had meant when he’d said that there was a place where his talent could have flourished – that he was good enough to have been Shiratorizawa’s starting setter, and if he’d chosen that path he’d be coming to the nationals with Ushijima in a few days’ time, instead of going home now.

Oikawa allows himself a razor-sharp smile at that, and sees it reflected back at him in the minibus window – _Well, how did that turn out for you, Ushiwaka-chan?_ And even after Oikawa had been so kind as to _warn_ him as well! Honestly, there’s just no helping some people.

He’s not sure why there should be such a simmering tension in the pit of his stomach – if anything, Ushijima should be embarrassed at the idea of facing _him_ again, after such a miserable loss.

“They say Shiratorizawa’s coach likes doing these matches because it funnels talented kids into volleyball, rather than flashier things like soccer and baseball,” Iwaizumi says from the seat next to him, his voice breaking into Oikawa’s thoughts. “It’s how he started building up Shiratorizawa into the team he wanted it to be. Maybe Aoba Jousai should start recruiting players like that.”

Oikawa just rests his cheek on his hand and keeps staring out the window. “More players like Ushiwaka-chan? _Ugh._ Why would we want players like that at Seijou? Quite frankly, Shiratorizawa is welcome to them.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t say anything to that, or in fact anything at all for the remaining hour and a half of the trip. They’re playing the match this afternoon, in a large gym in some school in the middle of the city. Of _course_ , the Shiratorizawa team seems to have arrived a little before them, and of _course_ Ushijima is already in the gym, spiking balls into the court so unnecessarily hard they bounce back up into the stands, and of _course_ Shiratorizawa's absolute creature of a middle blocker is there too, apparently solely and specifically to give Oikawa the creeps as he turns to stare at him, before nudging Ushijima in the ribs and pointing.

Ushijima turns and looks at him over his shoulder, and Oikawa sees the way he stiffens slightly, already-straight back straightening further, before he gives him a slow, deliberate nod. Oikawa supposes he could stick his tongue out at him or something, but to be honest, he’s just not feeling it this morning. Blame it on the fact he hasn’t had his breakfast yet, since he didn’t want to eat on the bus.

“Come on, let’s go,” Iwaizumi tells him, tugging on his arm. Oikawa follows him without a word, and without responding to Ushijima’s little nod either, whatever he meant by it – though when he glances back over his shoulder as Iwaizumi pulls him out into the corridor, Ushijima’s eyes are still on him, the volleyball still in his hands.

Oikawa can still picture it as they head into the change rooms to stow their gear and get changed. He and Iwaizumi choose lockers next to each other, as they always do, and Oikawa can feel the sidelong glance Iwaizumi is giving him without having to turn his head and look.

“What’s eating you today?” Iwaizumi asks, his voice low, as he opens his locker door. “You’ve been in a shitty mood all morning.”

Oikawa curls his lip, raising his head to gaze up at the ceiling before he formulates his answer. It’s true. He’s bored, bitter, and annoyed. He _is_ in a shitty mood. Shitty enough, perhaps, to give voice to the first flippant thought that pops into his head, rather than shoving it back down where it belongs.

“Absolutely nothing, Iwa-chan. Can’t a man formulate his plans in peace? It might be just an exhibition match, but I have some ideas for how to even the score.”

“Hmm.” Iwaizumi chews that over. “So you’ll share them before the match actually starts, right?”

“Obviously.” Oikawa smiles at him, brushing his hair back off his forehead in the exact way he knows makes girls scream, and Iwaizumi roll his eyes. “Though my strategy for this game may be a little more… unorthodox.”

Iwaizumi looks up, his expression actually curious. “Oh?”

Well, Iwaizumi was the one who dragged him here, so Iwaizumi can be the one who has to deal with the consequences.

“I’m planning on using distraction tactics.” Oikawa winks. “You know what I mean. Shiratorizawa can’t keep their eyes on the ball if they’re on me instead.”

Iwaizumi gives him a _look_ , his eyes narrowing. “Uh- _huh_. So… that’s our new tactic is it, as a team? Seduce the enemy?” 

“Oh no – just me. I’m willing to bear this burden for everybody.”

“Right, of course,” Iwaizumi says slowly. “What makes you think they’d even be interested?”

Oikawa tosses him a _look_ , before gesturing down at himself. “Is that a joke, Iwa-chan? Who wouldn’t be?”

“Sure. Okay.” Iwaizumi nods. “So... you’re coming out, then? Is this you coming out? This is a new and interesting way of doing it, even for you.”

“What a tragic lack of imagination on your part, Iwa-chan.” Oikawa sighs. “It would be nothing but rank selfishness to restrict myself to only one half of the human race, anyway.”

“All right, fine. Well, either way, thank you for telling me first,” Iwaizumi says, rolling his eyes. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this, clearly.”

Oikawa reaches into his bag, pulling out the lunchboxes his mother had prepared for him. "You know, Iwa-chan, in ancient Sparta it was understood that men would fight twice as hard if they knew they were protecting their lover from certain death, and furthermore –" 

“It’s no good, Oikawa, you’re not going to convince me you’ve ever paid attention in history class,” Iwaizumi rudely interrupts.

“And _furthermore_ ,” Oikawa continues, unperturbed, “nanshoku wasn’t exactly unknown during the Edo period. So it’s all perfectly-well documented in the annals of history. And don’t be crass – of course I haven’t been paying attention in history class, Iwa-chan. I watched a late-night documentary about it in middle school.” 

“All right, fine,” Iwaizumi says. “But what does that have to do with literally anything?” 

“Well, obviously it would work the other way as well. What man wouldn’t hesitate to deliver the killing blow to the man he loves?”

Iwaizumi shakes his head, pulling out his own lunchbox. “This is stupid. If you’re blabbering on about ancient Sparta and whatever else, then shouldn’t you be trying to, I don’t know, seduce your own teammates or something?”

“Is this your round-about way of telling me you’re interested, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa lifts his hand to his lips, feigning shock. “I never knew you cared.”

“It might be worth a peck on the cheek if you'd throw yourself between me and getting one of Ushiwaka’s spikes to the face,” Iwaizumi muses. "I seriously thought he'd killed Karasuno’s number ten at the final.”

“Oh, you're a bit sturdier than that pipsqueak, I should think.” Oikawa shrugs. “Anyway, it would mess up my plans if my face were all squashed in.”

“Your plans,” Iwaizumi says flatly, “to dazzle Shiratorizawa with your attractiveness so we can win the entirely inconsequential exhibition match.” He pauses, looking off to the side, chewing the inside of his cheek as he thinks. “Look, Oikawa…” Iwaizumi starts, before trailing off.

“What?” Oikawa gives him his most ingenuous look – it’s been a while, but he can still find it, the big-eyed, unworldly, artless look that had gotten him out of so much trouble whenever he’d stood up a date, or promised to come home early to study, or said he’d help his sister with dinner, when he’d obviously been playing volleyball rather than doing any of those things. 

But unfortunately, it's never really worked on Iwaizumi.

“This isn’t… you don’t think you should back off, just a little bit?” Iwaizumi says at last, looking him straight in the eye. “Some things… they’re not really a joke, right? Maybe you should just lay off.” Iwaizumi swallows, looking away again as he closes his locker. “Just because you’re angry about what happened and about Kageyama –”

“Who?” Oikawa asks, trying and only just failing to keep the sharpness out of his voice. “Look, Iwa-chan, I can’t be expected to remember every little worm that wriggles across my path.”

“That’s weird,” Iwaizumi says, looking him dead in the eye, “because I can definitely remember having to stop you from smacking the world’s most painfully earnest twelve-year-old in the face for the heinous crime of having asked you to teach him how to do a jump serve.” He pauses, closing his locker. “But like I said – it’s no reason to take it out on innocent bystanders, even if they _are_ Ushiwaka.” He drops his eyes at last. “You shouldn’t play with people’s feelings like that.”

Oikawa stares at him, feeling something uncomfortable squirming in his gut, where he suspects he may keep his conscience.

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” Oikawa snaps. He slams his locker shut. “I’m only thinking about how to give us the best chance of winning _this_ game, and inspiring a new generation of kiddies to dream of playing volleyball for Seijou, just like you wanted. That’s a lofty goal, isn’t it? Honestly, Iwa-chan, I’m shocked at you.”

“Oh, right. I get it.” Iwaizumi nods. “You think you’re being funny right now. This is a joke, and you’re not being serious.”

“Of course I’m being serious,” Oikawa says breezily. “Just you watch.”

* 

Obviously, when Oikawa had said he was going to deal with Ushijima by seducing and thereby distracting him, he hadn’t been being serious. He’d only said it to introduce a hint of spicy annoyance to Iwaizumi’s day for the dreadful crime of dragging him out of his nice, warm bed and here to chilly, distant Niigata. But then Iwaizumi had just _had_ to bring up both Kageyama and what had happened in the preliminary in the same sentence - so now, what else can Oikawa do but stride across the cafeteria to where Ushiwaka is sitting – blissfully, he’s alone, his middle blocker friend nowhere in sight – and sit down across from him?

“So, what's a guy like you doing in a place like this?”

Ushijima barely glances at him, a slight frown of confusion crossing his face. “Playing volleyball,” he says.

Oikawa _wants_ to look at him incredulously, but no encounter he’s ever had with Ushijima prior to this one has made him think he’s a sterling conversationalist, so instead he busies himself with opening both his breakfast and his lunch boxes and setting them out in front of him, covertly glancing across at Ushijima’s own lunch as he does.

Ushijima is eating what looks to be sliced-up, raw zucchini of such startling proportions that Oikawa wouldn’t be surprised if Shiratorizawa’s coach had tried to recruit it to their volleyball team as a wing spiker, and now Ushijima is taking care of the competition by eating it.

Oikawa sincerely appreciates that his mother had obviously gone to some trouble to make him his favourite things, but he honestly can’t say he’s all that hungry. But still, he manages to pick up a piece of tamagoyaki, chew and swallow it with all the appearances of enjoyment before raising his head to look at Ushijima again. Out of the corner of his eye, he can detect Iwaizumi sitting with Hanamaki and Kindaichi, all of whom are staring at him, so really, what other choice does he have but to flop back in his chair, flip his hair and say, “So, is that a raw zucchini, or are you just happy to see me?”

“It’s a zucchini.” Ushijima methodically begins opening the next compartment of his lunchbox, and Oikawa can hardly contain his excitement waiting to see what will be revealed – and oh, it’s plain tofu, without seasoning of any kind in evidence at all. Ushijima picks a piece up and pops it in his mouth and chews without even seeming to notice. 

“Well. That looks absolutely delightful,” Oikawa says, as he selects a little piece of grilled octopus from in amongst the wilds of his salad. “No one told me you were such a gourmet.” 

“It is an excellent source of protein,” Ushijima tells him, before returning to his zucchini. Oikawa scowls at it. Is it actually raw? Is Ushiwaka really just consuming it condiment-free? Does he genuinely not know how weird that is? 

“Honestly, how are you even eating that?” Oikawa finally says several pieces of zucchini and tofu later, when he can stand it no more.

Ushijima looks down, brow creasing. He looks up again. Opens his mouth.

“I don’t mean literally,” Oikawa snaps. “I meant how are you not dying of boredom? At least put some sesame seeds on it or something, for goodness’ sake.”

“It’s food. Its purpose is to fuel the body.” 

“Somehow I’m completely unsurprised and yet strangely disappointed to hear you say that.” Oikawa leans back on his chair, balancing it on its two back legs as he runs his fingers through his hair, slow and calculated, and naturally, Ushijima’s eyes follow his movement. “Haven’t you ever eaten anything just for fun?” 

Ushijima seems to consider the question with extreme seriousness. “Tendou occasionally brings European chocolates he’s ordered to our dorm,” he says eventually. “On one occasion, I ate two.” A pause. “They were extremely pleasant.”

“Wow. I’m amazed. Good for you, Ushiwaka-chan.” Oikawa tips himself slightly further back on his chair, smiling, raising his eyebrow in a way he’s been told is very rakishly charming. “So you’re telling me you didn’t break out the Baagen-Dazs for an ice cream binge after your loss to Karasuno? That must’ve been pretty crushingly humiliating for you, especially after your little speech to me about, what was it? _My team is the strongest one here,_ or whatever it was.” 

“No. It wasn’t necessary.” Ushijima’s chopsticks hover over his lunchbox and its unspeakably dreary contents. “Is that what you did?”

Oikawa freezes, mid-chair tip. “I’m sorry?”

“After your loss to Karasuno,” Ushijima says, in what he probably imagines is a tone of helpful clarification, inclining his head slightly as if in inquiry. “Since it was your last chance to take Seijou to a national competition, and the chance was lost.”

Oikawa clenches his jaw, grinds his teeth, and laughs with the lightness of a tinkling silver bell. “What are you talking about?”

“Perhaps the sting of the loss was lessened by the fact that Shiratorizawa _has_ competed at a national level,” Ushijima continues, his stare level, his head still slightly inclined. “But your Aoba Jousai team cannot say the same.”

Oikawa stares at him, trying to figure out just what Ushijima’s angle is on this – and it’s almost more infuriating to realise he _doesn’t even have one._ Oikawa knows full well he should spit some venom in Ushijima’s direction and pick up what remains of his lunch and go eat it in some more pleasant company, such as the potted ficus in the corner of the cafeteria. But instead, for _some_ reason, he swallows past the lump of malice in his throat and says, charmingly, and not at all with a razor’s edge of anger in his voice, “Oh, I don’t think we’re so different as all that. We both lost to Shrimpy and Tobio-chan, didn't we? You’re an eagle with its wings clipped, and we’re last spring’s fallen leaves. Tragic. Who knows where the winds will blow us from here?”

Of course it’s different, though. It’s different because there had been so much hope in all of them. It’s different because it was the last time. It’s different because just like Ushijima says, at least Shiratorizawa actually _went_ to a national competition this year, and at Seijou’s expense. 

Ushijima lowers his hand, laying it on the table so his chopsticks rest on the edge of his lunchbox, his eyes boring into Oikawa's face. “You cannot seriously be saying that _you_ have any concerns about your future in volleyball.”

Oikawa just laughs lightly, picking up a piece of squid and popping it in his mouth. _Of course I don't,_ he wants to say. _Haven't you ever heard of dramatic irony, Ushiwaka-chan? Didn’t you hear me say that this wasn’t the end of my volleyball career?_

That’s what he _wants_ to say. But the words stick in his throat, bumping up against the cold, unfamiliar urge to say something more honest. Despite their loss to Karasuno, he’d rather die than admit that he and Ushijima might have anything in common – because really, what would Ushijima know about anything? He doesn’t have to live with the knowledge that there’s only so far hard work will take you, or with a knee that goes _pop_ sometimes when it shouldn’t do, or with the fifteen-year-old spectre of Kageyama Tobio stepping on his heels; not when the only reason Oikawa wasn’t in danger of losing his starting setter’s position to him is because, thankfully, everyone who’d ever met Tobio-chan had agreed with Oikawa about the extent of his terrible personality. 

What does Ushijima know about any of that? He was born with everything he needed - his height, his build, his strength, his talent - and so instead of the pert, flippant retort he had planned, what Oikawa finds himself snapping out instead is, “I’m sure to you, Mr. Represents Japan in the under-19s top-three ace in the country, worry for the future is a foreign concept. But for us mere mortals, it's a pressing concern.”

Ushijima blinks. “I didn’t mean –”

“I’m bored with this conversation,” Oikawa announces – and truly, he is. This isn’t why he came here. If he wanted to dissect how he felt about his future in volleyball, he’d go talk to the ficus. Or the incomprehensible modern art sculpture in the foyer. Anyone or any _thing_ except for Ushijima Wakatoshi. “Here. Try eating some proper food,” Oikawa says, picking up a piece of the teriyaki salmon his mother had carefully nestled next to a rice ball in the shape of Mickey Mouse’s head. “Come on. It’ll do you some good. Say _ahhh_.”

For a moment – just for a moment – Oikawa thinks Ushijima just might do it: open his mouth and eat the piece of fish Oikawa is steering towards his face with his chopsticks. He certainly looks like he’s _thinking_ about doing it, anyway, but Oikawa never gets to find out what might have been, since in the next moment he feels a hand come down on his shoulder, hard and heavy, and he doesn’t have to look up to know it’s Iwaizumi, come to put an end to all his fun, as per usual.

“Oikawa, we’re going to go warm up. If you haven’t finished your lunch yet, that’s your lookout.” A pause as he nods across the table. “Ushijima.”

Iwaizumi’s tone is one that brooks no argument, and Oikawa’s chopsticks quickly change course, heading for his own mouth. It’s a pity Ushiwaka hadn’t taken him up on his generous offer – the salmon is _very_ good. Oikawa almost regrets that he won’t have time to eat the rest of it, even though he usually doesn’t like eating much before a match. 

Iwaizumi is snapping the lids back onto Oikawa’s lunchboxes with a brutish efficiency, and Oikawa barely has time to flip his hair, direct a roguish smile in Ushijima’s direction and say, _It’s been a pleasure, let’s do it again sometime,_ before Iwaizumi drags him off by the elbow.

“Happy with yourself?” Iwaizumi mutters, when he apparently decides they’re out of earshot. “You realise half the cafeteria was watching that, right?”

“I’d be shocked if it was anything less than three-quarters,” Oikawa says. “This is _me_ we’re talking about.”

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. “Yes, it is. And given how embarrassed I am right now, you’d better hope your stupid little scheme works and Ushiwaka twists his ankle, falls over and dies for love of you.”

Oikawa makes a sound that could be mistaken for a laugh by probably anyone who isn’t Iwaizumi, but he ignores the sharp look he gives him and looks back over his shoulder instead – Ushijima is staring after them, his face, as usual, unreadable, his zucchini and tofu sitting forgotten on the table in front of him.

*

Of course, Shiratorizawa win the game in two sets, 29-27 and 31-29, and Ushijima never even looks distracted _once_.

At least Iwaizumi has the decency not to say anything as they stand by the side of the court, towelling the sweat from their faces. A few of the more interested kids have come down to the court to talk to the players, and Oikawa watches as Ushijima reaches out one overly-large hand to pat a kid about Takeru’s age on the head, and Oikawa huffs and looks away.

Oikawa stays up late, well after everyone else has gone to sleep – as usual they’re staying in a shared dorm, so he pulls his head beneath the blanket when he gets out his phone, putting his earphones on. He’d like to lie to himself and say he’s just going to poke around online until he drops off, but he already knows what he’s going to do – he’d uploaded the recording one of the cheer squad had made of Aoba Jousai’s Interhigh game against Shiratorizawa, on the assumption that they’d definitely be facing each other for a spot in the Spring Tournament, looking for new ways to deal with Shiratorizawa’s monster middle blocker and Ushijima’s left-handed spike. Oikawa always does it – he watches the games they win and the games they lose, and he watches himself the most closely of all.

He watches to the end of the match and he’s still not sleepy; his eyes feel dry, but he doesn’t blink as he watches himself, having failed to stop the final spike of the match, kneeling on his hands and knees, before he raises his fist to smash it down into the court – and he watches as Ushijima, the one who scored the winning point, hesitates on the other side of the net, his hand stirring from his side a moment as if to reach out to him, before it drops back.

Oikawa exhales, tossing his phone aside; he lies back on his pillow and closes his eyes, but it’s still a long while until he sleeps.

*

He’s still up earlier than almost everyone; after washing his face he realises he left his extra box of contact lenses in his sports bag, so he wanders along to the gym in the slight hope that the door might somehow be unlocked. To his surprise, it is, and to his distinct lack of surprise, he finds Ushijima on the other side of it, apparently practicing his jump serve – as if it could get any better.

Ushijima looks around before Oikawa can skulk back the way he came, nodding to him the same way he had when Oikawa had arrived yesterday. Oikawa remembers suddenly he’s wearing his glasses and raises his hand to yank them off – even though, obviously, it’s a bit late now.

“I already know you wear them,” Ushijima says, holding the ball between his hands. “So it really doesn’t matter.”

Oikawa frowns, staring at him. “How would you know? I never wear them to matches.”

“I saw you. At the final.” Ushijima bounces the ball. “You were wearing them then.”

 _Ah._ So Oikawa hadn’t been as stealthy as he thought, even though he’d arrived late and then snuck away before the trophy ceremony. _Clearly, Ushiwaka just has a sixth sense for when I’m around._ He thinks about saying it out loud, but something stays his tongue.

Ushijima bounces the ball again, looking away. “Did you come here to practice?” Another bounce. “There is no reason you couldn’t, just because I'm here.” Bounce. “Would you be interested in setting for me?”

Oikawa waits for his own urge to laugh out loud – but to his surprise, it never comes, and instead he wanders off into the change rooms, getting out his spare uniform, his contacts, his shoes. Ushijima is waiting for him on the edge of the court when he comes back, saying nothing as Oikawa moves to the right side of the court, still holding the ball.

“Well, all right, throw it then,” Oikawa says.

He’s not used to tossing to someone as tall as Ushijima, but he works it out quickly enough – though even when his tosses go too high or too wide, Ushijima hits them. Oikawa feels something vicious squirming in his gut, and he spitefully sends the ball wide, or to where _he_ thinks Ushijima should be, sends it to places a setter has no business sending a ball, but somehow Ushijima always manages to spike it. It’s maddening, and in these moments, Oikawa thinks he’s never disliked anyone as much as he dislikes Ushijima Wakatoshi.

Retrieving the last ball from the cart, Ushijima throws it up, and Oikawa waits for it to touch his fingertips. The moment before it does, he glances over to see which side Ushijima is going to go to – _the left_ – and as he begins his jump, the hem of his shirt rides up slightly – Oikawa’s finger slips, and the ball flies off-kilter, out of range. Ushijima misses the spike, his hand sailing through the empty air.

The air outside the gym is chill, and Oikawa finds himself shivering, despite the fact icy weather never usually bothers him. He pulls his chin down into his jacket, zipping it up as far as it’ll go.

“Are you cold?”

Oikawa glances up at Ushijima standing next to him. He wants to scowl, but his face just isn’t working properly today. Instead, he stares down at their shadows stretching across the concrete in front of them, side by side, dark and comically elongated in the early morning sun.

“I’m not some kind of delicate hothouse flower, despite the fact I can see how the mistake could be made,” Oikawa finally says, lacing his fingers lightly through his hair and pushing it back from his forehead. “A little bit of cold won’t do me in. Whatever doesn’t kill you, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Here. You can borrow this.”

Oikawa turns, blinking, to see that Ushijima has reached into his sports bag and pulled out a scarf. It’s a warm, fluffy-looking one, made out of mohair or something similar, the likes of which Oikawa never would have credited Ushijima with having the good taste to own – perhaps it’s the work of a caring mother or some other similarly sympathetically-inclined relative. Oikawa stares down at it a moment before looking up at Ushijima’s face, his lip curling.

“I don’t want your scarf. You keep it.”

Ushijima just shrugs, and keeps holding it out to him. “I’ve never worn it. I don’t feel the cold.”

Oikawa can believe it – Ushijima’s jacket isn’t even zipped up. His sleeves are pulled up over his forearms, which don’t have goosebumps on them. It’s a disgusting, completely unnecessary display. Oikawa is outraged.

“Here.”

Apparently Ushijima has grown tired of Oikawa staring at the scarf in his hands and his completely goosebump-free forearms, because he reaches forward and gently pushes the scarf between Oikawa’s arm and his sports bag. 

“Just in case you decide you need it.”

Oikawa doesn’t say anything to that, and maybe Ushijima doesn’t expect him to, because he turns and walks away immediately afterwards and doesn’t look back, presumably heading off to find his spine-chilling middle blocker friend and their withered husk of a coach. 

“Where did you get that scarf?” Iwaizumi asks him later when they’re getting on the bus, eyeing it dubiously where it sits, wrapped snugly three times around Oikawa’s throat – it’s just as soft as it looks, and Oikawa takes a moment to rub his chin luxuriously across it before he answers.

“Oh, this? I went out early and bought it, since Iwa-chan was too unyielding yesterday morning to let me stop and think about what I needed to pack. You owe me 4,500 yen in expenses.”

“Oh. Sure. Okay,” Iwaizumi says, still giving him a strange and unfathomable look. “Whatever you say, Shittykawa.”

It's not until Oikawa’s at home and unwinding the scarf from around his neck that he notices the neat little name tag sewed onto the edge of it, with the name USHIJIMA, W. very clearly and obviously stitched in someone’s trim, careful hand. Oikawa stares down at it in his hands for a moment, before, huffing, he throws it across the room and onto his desk. 

*

The scarf is still sitting on Oikawa's desk a week later.

Oikawa’s been ignoring it – it’s not like he doesn’t have better things to do than sit around contemplating Ushijima’s scarf. Yes, he’d worn it once when he was going out for a post-study jog, but that had been because he hadn’t been able to find his own in amongst the general chaos of his room – and yes, he’d then googled ‘how to wash mohair or w/e this even is’ so he didn’t mess it up before he returned it. Since he _is_ going to return it. He’ll stuff it in a postpack and mail it or something. 

He’s on his way out the door when he stops and glances back at where the scarf is sitting folded on his desk – he’ll be late to school if he doesn’t leave _now_ , and he just knows Iwaizumi is already pacing on the corner, waiting for him.

 _Ugh._ Ushijima has absolutely no right to make him feel like he ought to behave decently, Oikawa thinks as he dashes back across the room. It’s _infuriating_.

He shoves the scarf _all_ the way down to the bottom of his bag – Iwaizumi will never let him hear the end of it if he sees it in there – and runs down the stairs two at a time, grabs his lunch from the kitchen counter, farewells his mother and sails out the front door. 

The school day trickles interminably by. There’s nothing to stop him from just mailing the scarf back still, Oikawa thinks as he stares out the window. He could go post it after school. He doesn’t actually _need_ to listen to this morning’s mild attack of conscience. And yet, somehow, after he farewells Iwaizumi, who’s off to his calc study group, Oikawa still finds himself heading to the bike racks, getting on his bike, and riding off in the opposite direction of the nearest post office.

Shiratorizawa Academy is near enough that half an hour’s dedicated riding has him pulling up outside the gates, and there, Oikawa pauses. He’s not certain how he’d even go about _finding_ Ushiwaka-chan should he choose to look – and anyway, now that he’s actually here, he realises he’d probably rather be lowered feet-first into a pool of piranhas than actually explain to him why he’s here. Since the reason is, he’s an idiot. 

Still, Oikawa’s here now, and if he has to wake up one more time and see the scarf sitting on his desk, ruining his morning, he’s going to feed it to a document shredder. One way or another, the scarf is leaving his life _today_. 

He parks his bike and heads to the main office – the receptionist looks up, smiling politely as he approaches. “May I help you?”

“You certainly may.” Oikawa smiles disarmingly, holding up the folded scarf. “I found this on the street – I think it belongs to one of your students. I wanted to hand it in to lost and found, so that –”

“Oikawa?”

There are no words for the feeling that crawls up Oikawa’s spine – but whatever it is, he does not like it even a little bit. He doesn’t need to turn around, but that’s what he’s doing anyway apparently, and of course Ushijima is standing in the corridor behind him, having just exited the office on the left. Which is wonderful. Just the person he came here to see. The next time Iwaizumi barges into his room uninvited, he’s going to find Oikawa laid out on his futon with a white cloth over his face – _Here lies Oikawa Tooru, he died because he couldn’t go on living._

“Oh. Hi Ushiwaka-chan,” he says as nonchalantly as he can manage. “What’re you doing here?” 

“I attend school here,” Ushijima says. And then, perhaps feeling as if elaboration is required, adds, “I was picking up a letter of commendation I received from the school principal.” He illustratively holds up an envelope.

“Of course you were,” Oikawa mutters. 

“I’m sorry?”

“Nothing.” Oikawa clears his throat. He’s gripping the scarf between his fingers probably a lot more tightly than he needs to be. “Anyway, I came to give you back your –” he says, at exactly the same moment as Ushijima says, “Would you care to join me at a café?”

Oikawa blinks. Well, what the hell. It’s cold outside, and he’s thirsty anyway. 

*

The winter sunset is streaming through the window they’re sitting by and the café has the heat turned all the way up, so despite his intentions of ordering something warm and nourishing for his ride home, Oikawa ends up asking for his usual iced coffee, and nothing to eat. 

He rests his chin on his hand and gazes out into the street beyond – it hasn’t started snowing yet so at least the roads are clear, though it might have been nice to have a picturesque little sprinkling of snow falling outside to distract himself from the fact he’s sitting in a café, across the table from Ushijima Wakatoshi. In the end, he decides to look at the little vase of flowers in the middle of the table, fluttering in the gust of heated air from the vent in wall behind them. At least it’s something. 

“Perhaps it’s for the best that you chose not to attend Shiratorizawa after all,” Ushijima says, suddenly and without preamble, looking at Oikawa from across the table, his hands pressed flat on its surface. Little finger to little finger, they almost span its entire width. 

Oikawa blinks at him, narrowing his eyes, before he realises that Ushijima is picking up on the thread of their conversation from the preliminaries, after Seijou had lost to Karasuno, and Oikawa had warned Ushijima that if he spent all his time focusing on him then he might be in for a nasty surprise.

“Oh?” he asks, as the waitress places his iced coffee in front of him, along with the extra cups of sugar syrup he’d requested – and maybe she’s taken a shine to him, because there’s a fancy little individually wrapped chocolate sitting on the saucer next to them. Ushijima is only having warm water, since, as he’d explained, he’s avoiding caffeine, glucose, and fructose without fibre, and all forms of flavour along with them, apparently.

Ushijima turns his head to look out of the window at the street beyond, the long shadows that creep towards them in the setting sun. “Perhaps you would have turned out to be a different kind of setter if you had,” he says after a moment. “A different kind of person.”

Oikawa laughs. “Oh, I doubt _that_ very much,” he says, as he begins emptying the first of his three sugar syrup cups into his iced coffee. “I am as I am, after all.” He slides the tips of his fingers up the sides of his glass, leaving trails in the condensation. “But the fact of the matter is that Seijou is where I belong.” _And don't you forget it, Ushiwaka-chan._

“Perhaps so.” Ushijima raises his cup of water to his lips, taking what Oikawa generously decides to call a contemplative sip. “In that case. If I haven’t been able to be your teammate, then I am at least glad to have been your opponent.”

Oikawa dips a long-handled spoon into his glass, jangling the ice cubes in his coffee around. “You say that as if it’ll never happen again.”

Ushijima cocks his head. “You have plans, then?”

“Oh, yes. Bigger plans than you can imagine, Ushiwaka-chan.”

It’s true, but apparently Ushijima doesn’t feel any particular need to ask him about what these plans might entail. To be honest, they’re still only half-formed in Oikawa’s own mind – all he really knows right now is that he’s tired of being a relatively big fish in the relatively small pond of Japanese high school volleyball, tired of feeling the heat of players like Tobio-chan and Ushiwaka-chan and those dreadful Miya twins breathing down his neck. There are other places he can go, other things he can do. Hard work has carried him this far. Why not see how much further it can carry him?

Ushijima sips his hot water again, before placing it down in front of him. “Well. I look forward to seeing what they are, Oikawa Tooru.”

 _Well, so does Oikawa Tooru himself,_ he thinks, as he takes a probably too-large gulp of his extremely cold coffee. Ushijima on the other hand has barely touched his water. 

“I feel in the past I haven’t always conveyed well what I meant to say. I was… pleased when you came to speak to me at the exhibition match,” Ushijima says suddenly, eyes fixed out of the window at the rapidly darkening street beyond. 

Oikawa almost chokes on his coffee, placing the glass down on its saucer as he stares at him, heart thudding. _That was a joke,_ is what he knows he should be saying. _I only did it to annoy Iwaizumi. Don’t take it so seriously, Ushiwaka-chan. I was just making fun of your zucchini._

For some reason though he doesn’t say any of those things – he just looks down at the table in front of him, and wonders what on earth his problem is today. Clearly, he’s losing his edge. Ordinarily, he’d throw whatever Ushijima had just said right back in his face, the same way he had when he’d sought him out after the preliminaries… except even then, he’d still tried to tell Ushijima to watch out for Karasuno, and not to take them lightly. 

“I never did get to feed you any decent food back then,” Oikawa says with what he hopes Ushijima can’t tell is some fairly forced levity. “Such a shame! You’d have loved my mother’s home-cooked salmon. Honestly, you can’t go through life eating plain tofu, Ushiwaka-chan. It’s unnatural.” He picks up the little chocolate, the gift the waitress had given him, and slides it across the table. “Here. Have a little treat of naughty glucose on me. No one has to know – you can eat it secretly under your blankets tonight. A little something to make you smile.” 

_Does anyone know what Ushijima looks like when he smiles?_ Oikawa wonders, as Ushijima picks up the chocolate, turning it over contemplatively in his fingers. Has anyone ever seen it? Had he smiled while eating the chocolates Tendou had shared with him – a little secret smile at discovering something new? 

“Thank you,” Ushijima says, with the kind of deep sincerity that at any other time would have made Oikawa laugh out loud. But now, he simply raises his glass to his lips and takes another long sip.

The temperature has dropped with the setting of the sun, and Oikawa shivers as they step out of the café – Ushijima had chivalrously insisted on paying, even though he’d only drunk water while Oikawa had had two iced coffees in the end. It’s not until he’s about to bid his farewells and turn away that he remembers why he even dragged himself out here in the first place. 

“Oh – I still need to give you back your scarf,” he says, rummaging about in his bag for it, finally retrieving it and holding it out. “Here –” 

It’s only after Ushijima nods and begins to reach out for it that Oikawa feels a sudden tightness clench in his belly, a sudden shortness of his breath. 

“On second thoughts, I think I’ll keep this,” Oikawa says, withdrawing his hand slightly. “It’s a little chilly today, and the iced coffee made me cold. I’ll give it back next time I see you.”

Ushijima blinks, and Oikawa sees him swallow before he says, “Next time?”

“Of course next time. Don’t think you’ve seen the last of me, Ushiwaka-chan.”

Oikawa had wondered before if anyone had ever seen Ushijima smile – now he wonders if anyone has ever seen him look as subtly pleased and mildly nervous as he does now as he says, “Of course. Next time.”

They leave it at that – Oikawa doesn’t want to run Ushijima’s entire reservoir of conversation dry _just_ yet, after all. He winds the mohair scarf with USHIJIMA, W. stitched across the edge around his neck, gets on his bike, and begins to pedal home, whistling a tune and wondering, firstly, how exactly he’s going to contrive a next time, and secondly, how he’s going to explain literally _any_ of this to Iwaizumi.


End file.
